King Alfred's Biscuits
by Firebird9
Summary: Sometimes, even the best bakers have their off days.


**King Alfred's Biscuits**

**Rating: **PG

**Author: **Firebird9

_This fic was inspired by a text exchange with FoxFireside, during which I almost burnt the biscuits I was baking. FoxFireside told me Dot would be proud of my efforts. I replied that I'm almost certain Dot never burns biscuits. She speculated that maybe, just sometimes, she does..._

_Incidentally, FoxFireside is alright, but uncertain when she'll return to writing fanfiction._

* * *

"Oh, no! No no no no no no no!" Dorothy Williams raced towards the oven, but she was too late. Her biscuits – the biscuits that were intended to fill the Fisher household biscuit tin (with, perhaps, a few over for Inspector Robinson's), comfort the mother of a sick infant, and thank Father Grogan once again for his life of tireless self-sacrifice for his flock – were burnt to cinders. That was what happened when your mistress suddenly demanded your presence to assist her in puzzling out the solution to her latest case (it was the wife, at the instigation of her dead first husband's long-lost brother), and while Dot would never for a moment begrudge her beloved Miss Phryne the absolute right to request her assistance in (almost) any matter, she couldn't help but feel a thin thread of dismay at the thought of all that hard work, not to mention all those ingredients, wasted.

Dismay gave way abruptly to embarrassment. Here she was, years in service under her belt, engaged to be married, and burning biscuits like a novice. What had happened to all her mother's careful teaching, imparted from the time Dot had first learned to walk, about careful timing and attention to detail? Not that Dot didn't know: her life had become immeasurably more complex since those childhood days in the crowded, cosy kitchen of their little Collingwood home. But what to do? The answer presented itself at once: conceal the evidence. Mr. Butler was out and unlikely to return before the early evening. Miss Phryne had gone racing off in the Hispano to share their discovery with the Inspector and probably wouldn't return until even later. There was no-one else around. If she got rid of the biscuits, baked another batch, and opened the kitchen windows wide to let out the smoke no-one need be any the wiser.

Swiftly she did exactly that, wrapping the burnt remains of her efforts in the concealing sheets of one of last week's newspapers, setting the curtains flapping in the breeze from the windows, and wiping up every last blackened crumb. Then she set about preparing the replacements.

The second batch was moments from readiness when the telephone rang, and she hesitated, torn. The biscuits simply couldn't come out yet, but what if it was a long conversation? But then again, what if it was Miss Phryne in desperate need of something? What if she had been arrested, or was trying to warn Dot of some terrible danger? Both had happened before, and Dot would never forgive herself if she ignored her mistress in an hour of need. With one last glance at the oven door and a quick prayer to Saint Elizabeth she walked swiftly to the telephone. "Fisher residence, Dorothy Williams speaking."

But it wasn't Miss Phryne, in need or otherwise. It was Aunt Prudence, regarding a charity fundraiser which her niece was due to attend the following week, and with a whole slew of instructions and reminders that she had Dot transcribe, in detail, read back to her, amend, read back again, and amend once more before she finally rang off. Dot didn't even need to enter to kitchen to know that her second batch of biscuits had gone the same way as the first.

"Oh, damn!" Immediately she slapped her hands to her mouth, horrified. Cursing? Was this what she had come to, cursing over a few burnt biscuits? Shaking, she removed the trays from the oven, mentally reviewing how long it had been since her last confession (too long) and weighing up the risk to her immortal soul, should she die unshriven, against the discomfort of laying out the quite impressively long list of sins she had accrued since her last confession whilst in Miss Phryne's employ. Of course, there was also the deceit she was committing in hiding the evidence of her sudden lack of baking skills, and the waste of ingredients, not to mention the many unkind things she had thought about Mrs. Stanley during her long and tedious monologue. No, she decided, she couldn't face explaining all of that today, and besides, she wouldn't have time. Not with another batch of biscuits to bake. This time, feeling only slightly guilty – in for a penny, in for a pound – she tiptoed into the hallway and took the phone off the receiver before she began.

But it was an insistent banging at the front door that dragged her from her careful watch over the oven, when it became clear that whoever it was might very well batter it right down if she didn't answer. A disgruntled client of Miss Phryne's, determined to speak to the lady detective, and unwilling to take 'no' for an answer. He would wait, he insisted, if Miss Fisher wasn't there, and made to push past Dot until, in a moment of inspiration, she remarked "well, I'm sure she and Detective Inspector Robinson won't be that far away." The mention of the Inspector worked wonders and the man ceased his efforts to enter the house, backing swiftly away from the door while remarking that actually, he was sure it could wait, wouldn't want to trouble the good lady when she's just in the door, absolutely no reason to involve the police...

Dot slammed the door behind him and raced through the house. "Please, oh please, oh please..."

But there was a distinctive smell in the air when she entered the kitchen, and though the biscuits that she snatched from the oven were only slightly over-browned on top she could tell that the bases would be ruined.

"Oh damn! And arse! And... and... blast it all to heck!"

"Steady on, Dotty."

She turned, gulping back a sob, to see Cec regarding her with amusement from the kitchen doorway.

"Cec! Is... is Bert with you?" She wasn't sure she could stand to have Bert hear her cursing, never mind knowing about the biscuits. To her relief, Cec chucked.

"Not him. He's down the pub. I only stopped by to pass this on to Mr. Butler." It was a plain brown envelope, the type that bookies were wont to distribute winnings to the luckier of their punters in (and Dot decided firmly not to think about just when she had picked up terms like 'bookie' and 'punter', never mind knowing how they disbursed funds), and she nodded towards the dresser.

"Just put it over there and I'll make sure he gets it."

"Much obliged. Now, why all the tears and strong language?" He'd heard stronger from five-year-olds, but they hadn't been the type of five-year-olds that Dorothy Williams had no doubt been.

"It's the biscuits," she admitted. "I've burnt them, again. I've been trying all afternoon, and they were supposed to be for Miss Fisher, and Inspector Robinson, and Father Grogan, and this poor mother at my church, she's already lost two babies and now her latest is ill, and-"

"Alright. Well, let's have a look at them. They don't look too bad to me."

"It's the bases. See?" They were cool enough by now that she could pick one up and turn it over.

"Well, so it is." Cec thought for a moment. "You know what Alice does when something like this happens?"

Dot shook her head. Alice's tendency to burn just about everything was the reason Dot had handled most of the baking while the two of them were in service to the Andrews together.

"First, she scrapes the burnt bits off." Cec collected a knife from the kitchen drawer, moved over to the sink, and scraped a couple of biscuits to demonstrate. Beneath a thin layer of burn they were dark brown but perfectly edible, albeit now irredeemably ugly. "Then, she gets some jam-" Cec had eaten in the Fisher kitchen enough times to know exactly where that was "- spreads some on the base of one of them-" he matched actions to words, then sandwiched the two biscuits together, burnt bases innermost "- and there you have it. She calls them King Alfred Biscuits. Have to say, they taste pretty good."

Dot gave a sad sort of sniff. "But then there'll only be half as many biscuits."

Cec shrugged. "Don't reckon it'll matter too much. Inspector'll manage just fine without for a day or two, and your Father Grogan isn't likely to miss biscuits he never knew were coming. You just put some in the tin for Miss Fisher and take the rest to that poor mother, and all'll be well."

At his kind, reassuring tone she almost burst into tears again, but instead she picked up a clean knife and the rest of the biscuits. "I suppose I'd better get to work then," she said briskly.

"You scrape, I'll stick," Cec suggested, and in a matter of minutes the job was done.

"Cec, I don't know how I'll ever be able to thank you!"

He chuckled. "Don't you worry your head about it. It's not as if I haven't had plenty of good feeds out of this kitchen myself."

"And you know you're always welcome. And I promise, next time you won't find me crying like a baby and swearing like a sailor."

"Most restrained sailor I ever met. I'd better get going. Alice must have just about finished burning dinner by now." And, with a wink to show that he was only joking, Dot found herself alone in the kitchen once more.

...

"Have you been baking, Dorothy?" Mr. Butler asked, when he arrived back just a few minutes later. Removing his coat and hat he headed for the biscuit tin. "Well, these look interesting." Selecting one, he took a bite. "Oh, very nice. I do like this jam filling. A new recipe?"

"Uh, yes." Dot used the excuse of placing the kettle on the stove-top to avoid meeting the older man's eye. "A friend gave it to me." And then, perhaps unwisely, "They're called King Alfred Biscuits."

"Really?" Mr. Butler considered this for a moment, watching Dot's rigid back as she resolutely fixed the tea. "I wonder why that is."

"I... don't know," Dot stammered. "Tea?"

...

"Only us, Dot," Phryne sang out, as she and Jack wandered into the kitchen. "Just looking for a little something to tide us over until dinner-time" She pulled the biscuit tin from the shelf, opening it and holding it out to the Inspector so that they could both examine the contents. "Oh, what kind of biscuits are these?"

"They're King Alfred Biscuits, Miss. I got the recipe off a friend."

"How interesting." They each took one, making happy noises as they ate. Cec had been right – they really were good. Nonetheless, Dot felt an overwhelming urge to remove the two from the kitchen as quickly as possible.

"I can bring you some tea in the parlour, if you'd like?"

"That would be lovely, thank you," Phryne replied. Jack, mouth still full of biscuit, nodded in agreement and they made their way back through the door, leaving the biscuit tin behind on the table. Dot let out a deep breath.

"I'm not sure what troubles me more, Miss Fisher," Jack remarked softly once the door was safely closed behind them. "The idea of Miss Williams burning biscuits, or the thought that she'd lie to cover it up."

Phryne just smirked at him. "What can I say, Inspector; I'm a bad influence."

"Mmm." He raised a second biscuit, palmed while the ladies weren't looking, to his lips and took a satisfied bite, chewing slowly and swallowing before adding, "but your staff really do make the most delicious biscuits. Even when they have to scrape off the odd burnt bit."

* * *

_Saint Elizabeth of Hungary:__ Patron Saint of a whole slew of things, including charitable societies, charitable workers and charities in general, homeless people, hospitals, nurses, those ridiculed for their piety, brides, widows... and bakers (at least, according to Google)._

_King Alfred the Great:__ d.899, and the only King of England (Wessex really) to be styled 'The Great'. According to a 12__th__ century legend, whilst fleeing from a Viking attack Alfred took shelter with a peasant woman on the Somerset Levels. She asked him to watch some cakes which she was baking but, distracted by the concerns of leadership (and probably not being a particularly experienced baker) he accidentally let them burn. This tends to be the best-remembered, and indeed the only-remembered, thing about him._


End file.
